


And The Water's Dark There

by Nolfalvrel



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Connor, Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), But mostly its just, But the good happy kind, Cecaelia Hank, Connor gets dicked down by his merboyfriend and loves it, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Hank Anderson Has a Big Dick, Hank Big, Hank is basically like Poseidon and is implied Lord of the Seas, He's half man half octopus, Human!Connor, M/M, MerMay, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Rough Sex, Smut, Some Plot, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Top Hank Anderson, mermaid au, minor world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolfalvrel/pseuds/Nolfalvrel
Summary: He’s gotten used to the grainy taste of Hank, the way salt always lingers on some edge of him, how everything is so constantly wet. He’s sure the open, surface air is a compromise for Hank too; they can only share breath for so long underwater before Connor gets dizzy.It’s worth it. All of it. Such concessions are the tiniest hints of bitter in a succulent pool of sweet.------------Human!Connor and Cecaelia!Hank express their love beneath the waves.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 15
Kudos: 191





	And The Water's Dark There

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a much longer fic, then I decided people would probably just appreciate the smut instead of my shoddy merworld building, so I cut half the dialogue and added more sex. Please enjoy!
> 
> **Minor Anatomy Note** \-- Hank has very comprehensive control of his tentacles suction cups, including and during all times of penetration :)

There is no way to describe Hank other than ‘sexy.’

For starters, he’s _huge_. Barrel chest straight off a lifesize G.I.Joe figurine, thick stomach all downed with blue-grey hair, big arms that can lift anything or _anyone_ easily, limbs muscled but lined softly with fat, so it feel like hugging a self-warming teddy bear.

And that’s just his body. His face is an entity born purely to make physical all that is understood semantically about the term “ _silver fox_.” Every feature is kissed with age, and it does nothing to deteriorate him. A thick beard to cover a thick square jaw, scratchy but clean and smelling paradoxically of firewood and seaspray. Same as his scruffy shoulder length hair. 

Scruffy, mind you, like a viking, not a hippie.

Laugh lines by the eyes, even though Hank is prone to frown or smolder, tell of a secret, heart wrenching smile. One with a gap tooth in the middle, a cute imperfection that sets a trap of Hank being approachable, when it peeks out between words. His skin is a weathered tan, maybe a bit ruddy, coloured by the sun in a way that implies a permanence.

Finally, there are Hank’s blue eyes, a million tiny fractures in the irises, strands of memory woven around the pupils in an intimate story that Connor feels he will never know.

Because Hank is so very, very secretive.

Mostly, probably, due to the fact that Hank vehemently attests to being the only one of his kind.

The first time they met, Connor had been wearing a yellow raincoat, stark against the grey-black sky, and the waves had bashed against the bluff so strongly that the salt in the air was near nauseatingly thick. The lighthouse had roved full blast above him, warning boats away. And Connor had been there, there being _outside_ like a _crazy_ person instead of _inside_ like a _normal_ person, because Sumo had been there; had chased some unknown pest to the edge of the rocks with a snarling fury. Sumo was such a big dog. He had pulled free so quickly, Connor hadn’t had time to reign him in. He’d even fallen into the mud trying to scramble after him.

So there they both were, Connor clinging to wet, slippery rocks, calling uselessly to the dog as the wind took his voice and sprinted away with it. He’d looked down at the churning water, remembering how he couldn’t swim. His Uncle Ben wouldn’t come looking for them until after he’d woken up from his afternoon nap. Which, without Connor to stir him, would probably mean tomorrow, if he woke up ever at all. Connor would be well and truly drowned by then. His body would probably float ashore for the morning tourists to film, if it wasn’t already a buoy for the sea gulls.

A particularly long strand of his soaked bangs had smacked him in the eye, and he’d had time to think, _Well at least if I die, I suppose I looked fashionable doing it_.

At which point he’d reached for the next rock on his tenuous climb. 

Slipped. 

And tumbled into the water.

Connor honestly can’t remember much beyond there being--

No air--

Yes, he’d known, desperately, intimately, that he couldn’t open his mouth--

But his lungs had kept pounding in his mind, asking _why, why Connor, why can’t we breathe, just breathe Connor, why can’t you open your mouth, Connor breathe, we need air, ConnorweneedairConnoropenyourmouthConnor **we’redrowning**_.

Not his favourite part of that memory. So he’s glad he’s forgotten most of it.

He doesn’t remember Hank entering the scene, which he’s disappointed by, because on the other multiple occasions he’s coming charging to Connor’s rescue, he’s looked terrifically valiant. Both meanings of terrific intended there.

But when they’d gotten above water, and something had pumped the water from Connor’s lungs, and he’d gasped alive again. All Connor had seen was bright orange tentacles, like whips of fire, suctioning and pulling themselves along the cliff side, fighting the storm. And Connor was being dragged along with them, and it had been confusing.

Tentacles belonged to octopuses.

But the shoulder his head had been resting on felt very human.

Besides, hadn’t he been drowning?

He’d looked straight up at Hank and bypassed any kind of freaking out, instead falling instantly in love.

“Fuck, you woke up,” Hank had snarled, as he looked down to see Connor staring wide-eyed at him. He’d scowled, and used a free hand to pinch his nose as the tentacles pulled them half out of the water. 

“Shit, well,” He’d eyed Connor again resignedly as he deposited him onto the rocks, “No one will believe you anyway.”

Hank had dived under again, seconds before Connor snapped out of shock, scrambling to his knees to shout a futile, “Wait!”

Hank had been gone. And Sumo had appeared on the rocks above Connor suddenly, barking; raving; mad.

And Connor, flushed red from the cold or the sudden arousal or the oxygen deprivation, had been madly in love.

Impossibly, fortunately, stars in the sky alignedly, from that brief moment, so had Hank. Their blossoming relationship had certainly revolutionized staying with his Uncle Ben and taking care of the man's gout and dog for the summer, turning it from an experiment in mundanity into a quasi-adventure-slash-pseudo-romance.

Although, Sumo, definitely, had already improved it by a fair margin by being so lovable.

There is, of course, concrete merit to Hank beyond him being what he had explained was a cecaelia. However, while the upper half of Hank renders him a stunning older man of personality and grit and scars-- like the mark of an orca bite circling his right hip-- the intricate, fiery scaled tentacles of his lower half do more than identify him simply as ‘half-octopus.’ 

He is known, in the water, as Lord of the Seas. 

Allegedly as per Hank not quite a Poseidon, but definitely, Connor feels, something close.

Dominion over the sea and tides allows Hank to drag them somewhere a little more sequestered than the paltry coat of the inky night over the beach. Connor watches the crystal blue of the cave mouth, water glittering and cupped by the stone like a liquid sapphire. He waits, somewhat impatiently, for Hank to emerge, legs curled behind him. He’d been left to recover after the trip underwater, which as per some strange law in cecaelian magic, required Hank to put Connor asleep to plunge so deep. Tandem breathing magic of the sea king be damned. A fact that had surprised even Hank.

It’s a little thrilling, he’ll admit, to think he’s the first person Hank’s ever dived so deep with.

_First_ human _that has taken the plunge,_ he corrects himself. The train of thought leads him to thinking about how long must have been gone. He rubs his fingers together distractedly, wishing his wetsuit had had a pocket to carry his coin. 

It’s an old polished doubloon, rescued from a murky seabed. He had thought it best to not risk losing it.

When Hank finally breaches the surface he lunges for Connor, immediately capturing him in a fevered, salty kiss. Connor can’t help but smile as he digs his hands into long wet hair. His whiskery beard is a rough scratch even with the damp of the sea, and has a ring of brine to it.

He’s gotten used to the grainy taste of Hank, the way salt always lingers on some edge of him, how everything is so constantly wet. He’s sure the open, surface air is a compromise for Hank too; they can only share breath for so long underwater before Connor gets dizzy.

It’s worth it. All of it. Such concessions are the tiniest hints of bitter in a succulent pool of sweet. 

“Where did you go?” He asks against Hank’s lips. Letting his hands cup Hank’s cheeks. Feeling a strong hand come to rest at his waist, while the other flattens against the cave floor. 

“Home,” Hank explains, then as Connor draws back questioningly, Hank’s eyes beget something that is both shuttered and a plea to not pry. “It’s nothing serious.”

The statement does nothing to deter Connor’s eyes from roving over Hank, checking for injuries, all too common and unwelcome souvenirs from returns to ‘home.’ “You were gone for a while Hank.” He knows Hank doesn’t want him to ask it, but he does anyway. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine,” Hank replies, pushing a hand through his hair. The wet locks stick and give him a windswept look. It does nothing for the frown setting into his face.

“You seem… troubled,” Connor lifts a hand gently, slowly, to stroke his thumb over a pronounced wrinkle on Hank’s forehead. Thin craters of worry. Every part of Hank tells a tale, from his physiognomy to his willful expressions, easily gliding on and off his face.

Unlike Connor. 

Connor frowns himself, but it barely settles on his face, like a gossamer mask. Hank’s own trenches deeper, and his eyes close, as though he’s struggling to stop the deluge from bursting free. He almost appears as though he might finally release it. Confide in Connor. But after a few strokes, it’s smoothed away, and Hank sighs. 

“Yeah,” He opens his eyes again, looks at Connor as though he’s something grounding. A landmark, Hank likes to joke, thinking the pun is cute and hilarious, especially since Connor doesn’t find it amusing. “Yeah, I know. But it’s not important right now. Really.”

“But--”

“Connor, it’s not fucking important,” Hank waves him off, not unkindly. He taps his forehead to Connor’s, grinning slyly, “What is important, right now, is _fucking._ ”

“Don’t you think--” Hank captures and swallows Connor’s next words by levering himself on the mouth edge and pulling Connor towards him, ending in a sultry kiss. 

“Later, okay?” Hank whispers when Connor needs to breathe, woefully more frequently than Hank, and spends his short reprieve gasping. “I don’t wanna be back there right fucking now.”

There’s unspoken words about ‘there’ that Hank has often danced around.

Mostly, that he doesn’t want to drag Connor into it.

Mainly, that he’s loathe to the idea of that leading to Connor getting hurt.

His tentacles, now that some have been invited out of the water, begin to lazily curl and glide forward as Connor relents, and begins to deepen the kiss. Hank’s tongue pours into his mouth with the same lethargic pace as his awakening limbs. It’s big, like the rest of him, and Hank eventually reaches a meaty hand to drag a thigh forward, so that Connor ends up sitting on the lip, the cecaelia slotted between. He feels himself start to tremble and grow wet with excitement, especially as their lips begin to draw on each other more hungrily.

Hank presses forward, and there’s a thrill in how Connor’s thighs lift to try and encircle him, and he has to spread himself _so very wide_ to accommodate Hank’s bulk. And with that, it’s a spark going off, and the slow intimacy floods with barely restrained desire. 

Hank is devouring Connor’s mouth now, a hand lifting to grip his chin tightly and hold him in place. Connor digs his own fingers into the tough skin of Hank’s back, grinding forward, feeling heat pool and simmer, a molten lust thrumming through his veins with every tortuous rub against his sex.The wet suit is too tight; constricting; a heavy skin over his body that feels like it’s suffocating him, especially with how little leeway Hank’s giving him to breath. Hank’s mouth is all consuming, and Connor tries to gasp and suck in the tiniest bit of air so he stops feeling so completely _overwhelmed_. 

With Connor holding their pairing tightly together via arms and legs, Hank puts his own fingers to better use, drawing the hand from Connor’s chin down his neck, pressing heavily, easily finding a risen left nipple peak beneath the black material. Hank loves Connor’s nipples-- while Hank has his own, well developed on his generous pectorals, he seems to adore not only the incredible sensitivity of Connor’s, but the size comparison between Connor’s own pecs and his tiny, tapered waist. Hank circles it once with his middle finger, making Connor buck fiercely into him.

“Hank…!” Connor manages, something warbled and drawn. He expects him to pinch it. 

The rubbery ring of what felt like a circle is all the warning he gets before a _sucker clamps fully over the bud_.

_“HANK!”_ Connor jerks back, but doesn’t get far, supported suddenly by two of the tentacles' friends. One curls up his back and wraps from behind to _plop!_ over his right nipple, and Connor writhes. **_“HANK!”_**

_“You like that baby?”_ Hank purrs, his free hands rubbing up and down Connor’s thighs, a tantalizing secondary sensation to the pure ecstasy being suckled from his chest.

“Fuck! Yes!”

“Don’t be shy Connor,” Hank licks into the shell of Connor’s ear as his thumbs slip down and begin to knead at his groin. He growls, “Be loud. Tell me if you like it.”

The suctioning seems to tighten, impossibly, and Connor arches and grips the tentacles, moaning. The vice over his buds pulsates, and he can feel so _much_ even through his clothes. He chokes, and he feels the saliva begin to pool and water over the cup of his lips as he wails.

“I like it! I like it! I like it!” The words reverberate everywhere, echoing off the high cavern and slamming back to assault his own ears. Curling a grin smugly on Hank’s face as he tongues over Connor’s chin. He sounds needy and whiny and because of that Connor knows he is flushed with pink humiliation at the ears and cheeks.

Because even when willfully indulging in pure sin like this he’ll never lose that tendril of shame over shrieking such blatant _lust_. 

“Fuck Hank I like it! Hank, oh fuck, I like it!”

“Good boy,” Hank pecks Connor’s cheek in reward. Pretending composure. He’s of the amusing and stubborn opinion that more limbs equals more control. But Hank’s hands shake as they slide to Connor’s waist, and at that point as Connor tracks the movement he notices the curling of a slightly smaller tentacle just beneath their entwined bodies, sucking desperately to the wall of the pool. 

Trembling. 

Connor shifts so he can whisper back to Hank, voice hoarse, “I think the _Lord of the Seas_ likes it too.”

He flushes red after saying it. But he said it. 

Hank also colours at the boldness, gritting his teeth in a sneer, and Connor’s peaks twist as the attached tentacles coil. Hank snatches his wrists between huge palms, and traps them behind his back, while his teeth clamp round the zipper for suit and yank. Right down until Hank is buried between Connor’s thighs, and his mouth is around Connor’s sex as wet, hot, silken bliss.

Bucking unrestrained, Connor lets Hank control his hips as his wrists are freed, feeling himself be pulled forward, encouraged to be rough. The texture of Hank’s beard against his sensitive organ, the length of his cock, has him wanting to dig into the carpet over the man’s abdomen. He buries them in the thick wet mop of grey atop his head instead. 

Then Hank’s tongue is in his hole, and his brain short circuits and stops. 

“Fuck, Hank!”

His vision goes black and restarts with a million stars. He can only scream _‘ah!’_ in repeated short, high breaths. Hank suctions and slurps in unison with the suckers, which had wormed their way under the wetsuit once his pecs had been released, now rolled halfway down his arms, and now make a tortuous bite directly around his nipples that is near punishing in how they twist and pull.

Every part of Hank feasts on Connor, and due to some odd part of genetics that makes cecaelia’s produce entirely too much saliva, Connor’s hole is dripping within minutes. And when Hank’s tongue is joined by the slimy prod of an eager orange feeler, Connor begins to sob.

“Hank! Hank, _please_!” He draws out his plea, dripping with need from every syllable of the word and every orifice of his body. Hank draws back and shushes him as he pushes Connor back, until he’s lying prone and Hank is a large towering shadow above him. Hank clenches his jaw as he braces hands above Connor’s head, shaking visibly from arousal, pulling the enormous weight of his lower half more fully from the pool and clamping himself in place with several. He makes quick work of Connor’s outfit, tossed heedlessly to splat against the cave floor.

“Fuck, Connor, if you could see yourself, spread out like this,” Hank hisses, fists spasming besides Connor’s ears. Above Connor, Hank looks as lordly as he ever could, sweat and sea plastering hair to his face and chest, unadulterated authority and relentless vigor broken by a vulnerable, fragile, breath-and it-shatters look so full of love Connor burns under it. The eyes that hold so many stories are riveted to his face, drinking in his shivering and mewling, and the sear of it is too hot and the weight of it is too powerful, and Connor looks away.

“Connor,” Hank murmurs, “Connor, look at me.” Hank’s voice is too soft for this. Connor can’t deny him; he levels with Hank’s blinding adoration, the happy crinkling of blue eyes above him, his own brown eyes watering. Hank takes the tip of his chin delicately between a thumb and forefinger, and the taste on Connor’s lips is everything he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

Hank enters with a slow feeler, that same shorter limb barely holding itself in check in the water. He lets Connor feel only it at first, letting his cock flush pink and wanting, letting his nipples rest as their abusers curl down to lift his hips. Connor quivers, reaching to grip Hank’s biceps, his legs still hooked demurely to either side of his bulk. Shuddering with every inch that’s pressed inside.

Then the tentacle has reached its plateau, burning hot and thick, buried far and deep, and Hank cocks back and fucks him.

He fucks him, and Connor squeals, because it’s almost too much, like always. The tight heat of his ass is plugged and plundered by a bulging limb, one that tears its way up and down in a furious pace, forcing itself into a space that burns from the stretch, making him intimately aware of just how small he is and that Hank. Is. So. Incredibly. Fucking. **Big**.

“Holy fuck, Connor. Fuck, you feel so fucking good baby!”

“Hank, fuck, yes, yes!”

Hank’s pace picks up further still and penetration quickly becomes brutal. He has a scorching accuracy, suckers pressing strong and ramming against Connor’s prostate. Holding himself above Connor by shuddering forearms, tossing his head back to move slick bangs from his face as he pounds his limb inside with abandon. Connor writhes, and his squirming is determined to be distracting as two tentacles wrap round his wrists and pin them to either side. Nestled perfectly between Hank’s burly arms.

His ankles endure a similar treatment; entrapment, rather, as they are anchored to Hank’s pelvis, and Connor realizes belatedly, as his cock strains and weeps it’s own silent plea against his stomach, that he might be left bereft while Hank takes his pleasure alone.

It would not be the first time it has happened. And while he _can_ come from prostate stimulation alone, the risk of not finishing starts a shaky panic inside him. Connor physically cannot reconcile with being merely edged today. He begs, “Hank, please, please, I need you to touch--”

Hank reacts like he’s been burned, “Fuck, sorry, Connor, shit!” Hank shifts and then he’s braced by one arm and there’s a violent molten curl through Connor’s groin at the touch that clamps over his cock and proceeds with a rapid, slick jerking. 

There’s the sounds of squelching from his ass as he’s dicked down, and the velvet wet of the hand wrapped on his sex. Hank growling near barbarically as he jackhammers his ass. Faster, animalistic, feelers snaking painfully tight as Hank chases release heedlessly. 

Hank snarls and snaps his hips and Connor mewls over and over until it finally trespasses into blissful, cresting coming. Hank’s hand milks Connor as he jerks up and quivers with every pulse of semen, and the vice and squeeze of his ass with each throb brings Hank to a roaring orgasm, Connor’s hips pulled high by tentacles that coil down his legs and tug up to support the final frenzied thrusts. The heat that blooms inside Connor is a mass of barely contained come, the milky white spurting from Hank’s organ and bursting from the swollen hole to splatter the rock below in a thick trickle. 

Connor pants, muscles and bones nothing more than hot putty held in by skin, as Hank calms down above him. Their chests heave, and Hank’s gills open along the jugulars, uselessly trying to draw in oxygen they can not process. Hank exhales loudly, releasing each of Connor’s limbs gently as the feelers instead move to lift Connor from the stone floor. Keeping their sexes connected as Hank slowly glides back into the pool, until they are both submerged to their necks. He grips Connor round the waist, and catches Connor’s moan with a kiss as he slides out of him. Expelling their spunk into the sea.

“Fuck, you’re always,” Hank mutters, stalling as he speaks into Connor’s hair, urging the other to rest against him as his tentacles loop and spiral to keep them afloat. Connor smiles, a tiny pull of the lips to one side, as he brings loose limbs over Hank’s shoulders in contentment.

“You’re always so perfect for me,” Hank finishes, incredulous. As though he can’t believe it to be the case. That he’s lucked out, finding Connor.

“I definitely enjoy our times together too,” Connor returns, laying his head against Hank’s collar, enjoying that strange warmth of his that never seems to die, even with Hank being a creature of the sea. “I don’t think I’ll ever be unhappy when I’m with you. Even if being with you includes facing some ominous peril before we can be together.” 

Stiffness fastens over Hank immediately. “Connor…,” he warns, listing on the edge of an excuse. Connor’s arms only pull tighter in determination.

“I want to be with you Hank, and if that requires some kind of fight to stay by your side, I am more than prepared for that scenario to take place.”

“Oh yeah, you and your big fluffy mutt?” Hank’s arms squeeze teasingly.

“I advised you before that I’m a cop back in the city. I am very experienced in handling dangerous circumstances. If you like, we can practice some together.”

Hank snorts, “You’re a fucking sap.”

Connor smiles, maybe a real one this time, with how his cheeks pull, “And I love you, Lord of the Seas.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this! Really have been craving mermaid themed Hankcon hardcore <3 would love to see what ideas you have for these two, if you liked anything about this fic, or have any (thoughtful) notes on how I can improve.
> 
> Oh yeah and any spelling/grammatical/contextual mistakes you may spot, I will not be offended! And remember that kudos are free! <3


End file.
